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She closed it and looked across the haphazard roofs below, and then up at the moon – a brilliant coin with dove-grey oceans. If she’d had a book, she could have read by this light alone, but her books were packed away now in the small bag by the bedroom door, awaiting tomorrow’s departure. Instead, she held up her hand and looked at the lines criss-crossing her silver palm. She wondered whether her future really could be written in those lines, like music in the grooves of an old 45. She wondered what tunes they might play. Love songs or bitter country heartbreakers.

Rice sighed and dropped her hand, and rested her forehead against the cold glass.

The letter knife was on the window-sill.

She flinched as if burned. She failed to breathe.

She stepped gingerly away from the window, and went quickly into the bathroom – coming back with a few sheets of tissue paper. With that, she picked up the little gold dagger with the engraved handle.

By the light of the moon she could read A Gift from Weston-super-Mare.

Even though the window was now closed, Elizabeth Rice started to shiver.

65

JONAS SHOULD HAVE been in Shipcott at the debrief with DI Reynolds, but instead he was walking across the vast flat sands of Weston-super-Mare beach, eating an ice cream.

He’d left his shoes and socks under the ice-cream van; he didn’t think anyone would take them. Not until the van left for the night, at least – but that particular night was hours away.

It was another spectacular day, and he had to eat fast to keep the vanilla from rolling down his knuckles.

There were plenty of holidaymakers, but the beach was so wide, and they were all so close to the ice-cream van, that it seemed deserted.

He approached the new pier. The old one of his dreams had burned down, surrounded by water. He looked around as he passed between the pilings, even though he would not find Lucy here.

He knew that now.

The thought didn’t make him sad. How could he be sad on a day like this? The sun was hot, the sand was cool, the ice cream was sweet, and he’d kept his promise.

He had saved the boy.

Not Charlie, sadly, but the boy that was himself.

People hurt children. Of course they did. That was the truth. But it was also true that children escaped, they recovered and they survived. Steven Lamb was proof of that twice over. Until Bob Coffin had shown him, Jonas had had no idea how resilient children were. How resilient he finally was.

Lucy had been right to want children and he had been wrong to prevent her. Jonas could see that now. But he knew she would forgive him; he had been a different person then. Now he felt complete. He had never felt so whole.

Jonas reached the water’s edge and the flat waves cooled his bare feet. The wet sand shifted slightly under his toes as the outgoing tide tried to suck the beach back into the ocean. He couldn’t help smiling, and excited butterflies filled his stomach.

He finished his ice cream, then leaned down to rinse his hands in the sea, before straightening up and squinting into the blue. Steep Holm island seemed very close, although it was miles away – high in the water and brilliant green in the sunshine. He’d never been there, but he’d heard it was covered in wild peonies. He’d like to see that some time. On the horizon was the hazy grey stripe of Wales.

Jonas stretched like a dog in the sun, and felt calm settle warmly into his bones.

Everything was going to be fine. Elizabeth Rice was smart; she would discover that the blood on the handle of the knife was not Lucy’s.

Jonas hoped that Steven would learn of it somehow, and know that he had told him the truth about that.

There were other truths about himself that were more disturbing, and Bob Coffin on the winch had finally convinced him of those too.

Jonas took off his uniform, folding each item and leaving them in a neat pile. He looked around before removing his trousers, but there was nobody close by. They slipped off easily because of the missing button that he’d never got around to sewing back on.

A button was like a wife. They both held things together. He’d lost a button and he’d lost a wife. But at least he knew where to find one of them.

Wearing only his shorts, Jonas walked into the cold water until it covered his scars, and then he started to swim.

It was years since he’d swum in the ocean. It was easier than he’d remembered; the salt was his friend. He headed for Steep Holm, even though he wasn’t planning to swim there. It gave him something to point at. He didn’t want to go round in embarrassing circles like a broken motor-boat.

The further he went, the happier he got. He swam freestyle, breathing under his right arm, the way they’d been taught at school. Sometimes it worked and sometimes he got a noseful of brine. But he felt strong, and he felt clean and he felt whole, and nothing was going to stop him. Not ever.

Finally Jonas tired.